Pie Hard

by Kirsten Weiss

  I ignored her. “The point is, we don’t know this TV crew. They’re from Hollywood—strangers.”

  “And one of them killed that producer,” Charlene said, ominously. “Ray’s right. If Chief Shaw’s declared this an accident, it’s up to us to find that poor woman justice.”

  “And I’ll bet there’s a ton of info about the crew online,” he said.

  Abril pushed open the swinging door. “Val?” she asked, face pale.

  “Just a second, Abril.” I crossed my arms over my apron. “Guys, this is a police investigation.”

  “I’m telling you,” Ray said, “there’s no investigation.”

  “Maybe the police are right,” I said. “Detective Carmichael’s no slouch. If he’s going along with the chief—”

  Charlene sneered. “He doesn’t have much choice. He answers to Chief Shaw, and he wants to keep his job.”

  Abril cleared her throat. “Val?”

  “That’s not fair,” I said hotly. “You know that Gordon’s investigated after Shaw’s told him to drop cases. He cares about more than a paycheck.”

  “I dunno,” Ray said. “He didn’t argue much with Shaw.”

  “But he did argue,” I said, “right?”

  “There’s a TV crew in Pie Town,” Abril shouted.

  We turned to stare.

  Color swept her dusky cheeks. “In the restaurant,” she said, in a more subdued voice.

  Charlene and I looked at each other. We rushed past Abril, bumping shoulders as we passed through the swinging door.

  The British consultant, Nigel, sat at the counter beside Tally Wally. Nigel, sleek in a sharply pressed, button-up, blue shirt and jeans, leaned closer, his smile vulpine. “A murder? Poisoning? And you still eat here?” His white teeth glittered. His blue-black hair shimmered beneath the overhead lights.

  Wally, rumpled in his brown plaid jacket, slurped from his mug. “The coffee’s cheap.”

  The gray-haired cameraman, Steve, moved in closer. Wires stuck from the pockets of his photographer’s vest.

  Behind Cameraman Steve stood another man. He also wore a photographer’s vest, but over a blue and white Hawaiian shirt. Broken veins tracked across his reddened nose. Stringy, faded-orange hair stuck out in places around his headset.

  I wrung my hands in my apron. “No one was murdered in Pie Town.” I hurried behind the counter to the men. “And he wasn’t poisoned by anything he ate here. It was all in the news.”

  The red-nosed man shuffled behind me. “Mic. Collar.” His beer gut hung over saggy and stained khaki slacks.

  “That’s also why I still eat here.” Tally Wally plunked his mug on the Formica counter. “The food’s safe enough, I guess.”

  Charlene’s blue eyes widened. “You guess?”

  “Besides,” he continued, “I’ve been coming here since before it was a pie shop. Miss the scrambled eggs. They used to put bacon and sour cream on.”

  “What do you think of the food now?” Nigel asked.

  I relaxed. Tally Wally was attached to that stool every morning like a barnacle. He wouldn’t give me a bad review.

  “The day-old hand pies could be a bit fresher.”

  My jaw dropped. “Wally, they’re day-olds. That’s why I sell them for half off. And you love a bargain!”

  Charlene shook her finger at him. “Traitor!”

  “Hold still.” The red-nosed man clipped a small mic to the collar of my Pie Town tee.

  Wally shrugged his lanky form. “I’m just saying. A senior discount wouldn’t hurt.” He winked at Charlene. “Not that one would apply to a young thing like you.”

  Mollified, Charlene fluffed her ivory hair.

  “A discount?” Where was this coming from? “But the day-olds are already half off.” Gordon was right. This show was not going to shine a positive light on Pie Town.

  “But what about a senior discount on the fresh pies?” Nigel asked me.

  “I had not considered a senior discount,” I said stiffly. Actually, it wasn’t a bad idea. I just wasn’t thrilled about having it jammed down my throat on cable TV.

  “And this coffee . . .” Wally raised his mug. “It’s not as good as that specialty stuff, is it?”

  Charlene planted her hands on her hips. “We’re a pie shop, not a gourmet coffee shop.”

  Nigel smoothed his goatee. “But there’s nothing stopping you from buying better quality grounds.”

  “What is Pie Hard doing here?” I asked, desperate to change the subject. “I thought after Regina’s d . . .” I darted a glance at her husband, the cameraman, and lowered my voice. “I’m surprised the show’s going forward.”

  Nigel frowned. “It’s a brutal business, and I’m afraid there’s no time for mourning. We have a new producer.”

  “Already?” I asked. “Who?”

  “I don’t know,” Nigel said, “I haven’t met him yet. But we got the word to continue filming, so here we are. By the way, this is our AC and sound tech, Luther.”

  The red-nosed man bobbed his head and tossed back his lank, orangey hair.

  I turned to the cameraman. “Steve, please accept my condolences on your loss.”

  Steve nodded. The camera was still on his shoulder.

  Luther snorted.

  The cameraman lowered his camera and whirled on him. “What’s your problem?”

  Luther raised his hands in a warding gesture. “Nothing.”

  “You’d have been out of a job years ago if it hadn’t been for Regina.” The cameraman’s nostrils flared.

  “Children, children,” Nigel said. “We’ve got work to do, and I know Regina would have wanted us to finish. She was that kind of person. Steve, Luther, shake on it.”

  “Forget it.” Luther rubbed his reddened nose.

  Charlene coughed. “Where’s Ilsa?”

  “She’s not here, so you’re off the hook today young lady.” Nigel waggled a finger at her.

  “Off the hook for what?” Charlene raised her nose. “My piecrusts are the best on the Northern California coast. I’m not afraid of Ilsa.”

  He grinned. “Perhaps you should be.” He moved to the urn and poured himself a cup of coffee. “Where are the saucers?”

  “Here.” I grabbed one from beneath the counter and handed it to him.

  The bell over the door jangled, and Wally’s “Professor Patches” walked in wearing the same tweed jacket. His brown slacks were pressed within an inch of their life, and his shoes gleamed. “Excellent, you got the message and are all here.”

  Nigel’s expression shifted, and he smoothed his goatee. He rose from the bar stool. “Message?”

  Frank bounced on his toes. “I’m your new producer.”

  Nigel’s mug rattled against its saucer. Hastily, he set it on a nearby table.

  Steve clunked his camera on the counter. His skin flushed, a red wash rising from his neck to the top of his head. “You?” he choked out.

  “When I learned of poor Regina’s demise,” Frank said, “I contacted the executive producer.”

  “I thought Regina was the producer,” I blurted.

  “She was the line producer,” Frank said. “But she answers—answered—to the executive producer. We’re old friends. At any rate, he convinced me to carry on for this shoot in her place.”

  Cell phones buzzed in people’s pockets. The crew members drew theirs out and studied them, frowning.

  “That’ll be confirmation I’m taking over,” Frank said. “You are lucky I am here and able to step in so fast.”

  “Yeah.” Steve’s eyes narrowed. “Lucky.”

  “But who are you?” I asked. He obviously had some connection to the crew, but Regina had acted like he was a stranger.

  “Yeah,” Steve said. “This is a little unusual, even for reality TV.”

  “I know of him,” Nigel said quickly. “We had lunch once—with him and the executive producer.”

  Frank rubbed his hands together. “What matters is I’m the line producer now
. Where’s Ilsa?”

  No one spoke.

  Finally, Luther pocketed his phone and said, “I don’t think she got word we were shooting this morning.”

  The new producer smiled. “Luther, isn’t it? You’re the assistant cameraman?”

  “Yeah. That and other things.”

  “Well, maybe you can round her up.”

  “Anything to get outta here.” He shambled toward the glass front door.

  “I need him for shooting,” the cameraman objected.

  “He just makes sure you don’t bump into things when you’re shooting, right?” Frank asked. “I can help out with that.”

  Steve stiffened. “He also deals with the sound and carries my spare equipment.”

  Frank nodded. “I think I can manage that in the interim. Luther?”

  In the doorway, the assistant cameraman turned, his expression bored.

  Frank tapped his head. “Maybe I should take the audio equipment off your hands for now.”

  Luther removed his headset and gave it to the new producer, then slouched out the glass front door.

  “That was a mistake,” the cameraman said, grudging.

  “Why?” Frank asked. “I can manage the sound, and he’ll be back as soon as he finds Ilsa.”

  “That’s what you think,” Steve said.

  The new producer cocked an elegant brow. “Oh?”

  “He’s off to the nearest bar,” Steve said. “The guy’s a drunk.”

  Frank looked a question at Nigel.

  The consultant nodded reluctantly. “He’s probably right. It’s not Luther’s fault. It’s an addiction. Regina knew how to handle him.”

  “I’ve dealt with plenty of addicts in my time,” Frank said lightly. “Don’t worry about it. I got this.”

  Steve nodded. “Okay. I guess as long as you can help out, we’ll get the shooting done.”

  Nigel’s jaw clenched and he looked toward the kitchen.

  “Nigel,” the producer said, “please continue.”

  “Wait,” I said. “We can’t just go on.” I had to nip this in the bud. Sure, we had some budget problems—what small business didn’t every now and then? It was obvious how they planned to spin this episode. The show would paint Pie Town as a disaster zone . . . until Nigel and Ilsa showed up to set us straight.

  All eyes turned to me.

  The clock above the counter ticked loudly.

  I shifted, self-conscious. So, they’d hate me. I had to shut this down.

  Charlene pinched my arm. “Don’t do it,” she whispered, her lips unmoving. “We need this show.”

  “Not if they’re going to make us look like idiots,” I hissed.

  “When has that stopped you before?” she asked. “And you owe Ray.”

  I swallowed. If the show was cancelled, our odds of finding out what had happened to Regina dropped to zero. In spite of my murder-investigation misgivings, I really did want to find out what happened to her. Maybe that was ego on my part, but Charlene and I had helped in the past. As we’d infiltrated the show already, so to speak, we had a better chance of getting the inside scoop on the murder suspects.

  Ray peered through the window from the kitchen, his freckled face plaintive.

  Oh, brother. I did owe him for saving my life. Shaw had screwed up two murder cases in the past—murder cases that Charlene and I had ultimately solved. It wouldn’t hurt to nose around a bit, would it?

  “We can’t go on . . .” I fumbled. “Until we’ve talked through what happened last night. It’s been traumatic for everyone.”

  “She’s right.” The cameraman’s round shoulders slumped. “I told myself working would keep me from thinking about her, but Regina was my wife. She’s all I can think about. And seeing someone else in her place . . .” He drew a shuddering breath and set his camera on the counter. “I still can’t believe she fell. Did anyone see anything?”

  Nigel braced his hands on the counter behind him. “I heard the commotion, saw the lights, and like a good lemming went to see what was happening. I never dreamed it was Regina. She was a terrific producer, and a terrific lady. I can’t imagine the show without her.” He glanced at Frank. “No offense.”

  The new producer pulled a chair from a nearby two-top and sat, crossing his arms and legs. “None taken. Clearing the air is an excellent idea.”

  “So you and Ilsa were at the hotel when Regina fell?” I asked Nigel.

  “We all were,” Nigel said.

  “Together?” I asked.

  “No, of course not,” Nigel said. “The crew split up as soon as we arrived at the hotel, after we finished up with you.”

  “Then you don’t really know if the entire crew was at the hotel,” I said.

  “This sounds a bit like an interrogation,” Nigel’s dark eyes flashed. “What does it matter where we were?”

  Frank rubbed his professorial chin.

  “Therapy,” Charlene said. “You know, when a disaster happens, everyone wants to talk about where they were. What they experienced. So where were you?”

  “In my room,” Nigel said. “Like I said, I looked out the window, saw the crowd gathering by the cliff, and I went to see what was going on. I thought they’d spotted a whale.”

  “And you?” I asked the cameraman. “Did you and Regina go straight back to your room after you finished shooting at Pie Town?”

  “No,” he said. “We walked along Main Street, checking out the shops. Then we went back to the hotel.”

  “And were you together the whole time?” I asked.

  “Regina and I went downstairs together for an early meal,” he said.

  “And then?” Charlene prompted.

  “I went for an after-dinner walk.” Steve jammed his hands into the pockets of his photographers vest. “I thought I’d get some nice sunset shots. Usually, Regina comes with me, but she said she wanted to explore alone.” His voice cracked. “If I’d been with her, maybe she wouldn’t have . . .” He jerked his hands free and buried his face in them.

  “You don’t think she went over the cliff intentionally?” I asked, aghast.

  His graying head jerked up. “No! Of course not.”

  “Could she have been meeting someone?” I asked. “Did she get any phone calls?”

  “No, she was alone,” Steve said. “It was an accident. It had to be,” he muttered. “She wouldn’t . . .” He shook himself. “Where’s the bathroom?”

  Charlene pointed.

  Leaving his camera on the Formica counter, he strode off in that direction.

  “Funny that you and Charlene showed up at the hotel,” Nigel said, “especially since you didn’t seem too happy to have us in your shop. Did you want to talk Regina into going easy on you?”

  “No,” I said, “of course not.”

  “Then why?” His voice hardened. “Because your appearance was quite timely.”

  “The hotel has a good bar,” Charlene said.

  “And a friend visiting the hotel called us and told us about the accident.”

  Charlene elbowed me in the stomach, but I didn’t see the harm in telling him the truth. Did he honestly believe our presence there was suspicious? It didn’t matter if he did. I had a dozen goddess gals to vouch I’d left with Charlene. I totally wasn’t a suspect.

  Frank clapped his hands and rose from the chair. “All right team, back to work. This isn’t a true-crime show, and Regina wasn’t murdered. Her death was a tragic accident.”

  An accident was the most likely explanation, but I had the sick feeling that there was more to it—that it was murder.

  CHAPTER 6

  Nigel walked across the checkerboard floor and smoothed the front of his blue, button-up shirt. “All right, Val. Word is you’ve expanded too quickly. Let’s take a look at those books.”

  “Later.” I pointed to Frank and Charlene. “You two. In my office.”

  Nigel blinked. “But—”

  “It’s okay,” Frank said. “Let me handle this.” Ni
gel’s swarthy face contorted.

  The producer and Charlene followed me into my office.

  I leaned one hip against the dented, metal desk. Though Pie Town looked charmingly retro (and pink), I’d spared all expense on my office. It was more Spartan than King Leonidas, with its ancient desktop computer and metal bookcases overflowing with napkin boxes and paper towels.

  Charlene shut the office door, sending a veteran’s charity calendar fluttering to the dingy linoleum.

  “Look,” I said. “Pie Town’s not perfect, but it’s important to us.”

  Frank nodded, his expression intent.

  “We’ll be thrilled with any advice that will help improve Pie Town’s products, services, or finances,” I said. “If I have to look like an idiot on national—”

  “Cable,” Charlene corrected.

  “Cable TV,” I continued, “so be it. But this is my livelihood. If you’re here to do a hit piece for laughs, real people are going to get hurt, namely everyone who works in Pie Town.”

  “Valentine, I can assure you that this will not be a hit piece.” He walked behind my desk and made himself at home in the swivel chair. “I genuinely want to help you succeed.”

  “Do Nigel and Ilsa?” And where was Ilsa? The French pastry chef still hadn’t appeared. I bent and pressed my fingertips into the metal desk. “I’ve seen the way they’ve treated other bakeries.”

  “Well, I’m the producer now.” He put his feet on my desk, brushing the keyboard with his polished heel. “You have my word that we’ll run a fair show.”

  “How exactly did you become the new producer?” I asked. “Because it seems a little random.”

  His gaze flicked to Charlene. “Maybe we should discuss this privately.”

  “Fat chance.” Charlene folded her arms. “I know all about casting couches, I’m not leaving Val alone with the likes of you.”

  His dark brows rose. “The likes of me? Why, Charlene. You don’t even know me.”

  “Exactly.” She sniffed. “I don’t know you, and there’s nothing you can say to her that you can’t say in front of me.”

  His mouth pursed. “Because you two are business partners.”

  “That’s right.” She raised her chin.

  Dammit. Somehow, he’d learned the truth. I studied the tile ceiling.